


Calamity

by kakashikrazy256



Series: Canon Compliant Snapshots [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chapter 14: The Tragedy, Crying, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Episode: s02e06 The Tragedy, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, din has a mental breakdown the moment he is alone, guy was just out of his body those scenes after baby was yoted and the crest was yeeted :(, he is also stupid as all fuck but we love him for it :), just a dad being sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashikrazy256/pseuds/kakashikrazy256
Summary: Within the walls of the Slave 1, Din Djarin falls apart.Post Episode 14: The Tragedy
Series: Canon Compliant Snapshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052624
Comments: 30
Kudos: 485





	Calamity

**Author's Note:**

> *Me frantically looking up the interior design of the Slave 1, trying to figure out if there’s a private space for Din to lose his shit and then I lose my shit at how complicated this ship is* 
> 
> Just me thinking about how flat and distant Din sounded. Mans was just in a total state of shock and lost after all that probably. 
> 
> Enjoy :^)

“Until he is returned to you safely, we are in your debt.” Fett tells him in a tone that leaves little room for argument. Fennec nods in agreement beside him, but Din can barely parse the words and gestures over the noise in his head.

_Gone gone gone gone, it’s all gone._

His body is rigid, his feet planted firmly on the ground. This can't be happening, there's no way everything is just _gone._ He must be asleep, still knocked on his ass out cold by the kid's magic. There's _no way._ He'll be awoken soon by the kid's babbling and knocking of little claws against his helmet. Everything will be here and accounted for, not up in flames and _missing._ He's quiet; waiting for the sudden shift in surroundings.

Nothing changes. 

He shouldn’t be standing still, there is so much to think about, to plan, to do. He doesn’t have time, he needs to..to do something. The kid— _Gone gone gone_ — He doesn’t think he can move even if he wants to at the moment. Nothing is listening. No one is listening. Not his body, not whatever this Force magic is. If the Force had been listening, it would’ve protected Grogu _._ It would’ve dropped the wall that had separated him from the kid and let Din whisk him away to safety before the Imps arrived. If the Force is worth half the stories he’s heard, it would’ve helped them..right? 

Din should’ve been faster, more efficient, better. If he’d listened to his brain, he wouldn’t have been so kriffing stupid to think this entire thing would’ve ended well for any of them. It never does. Any moment where he even considers that things will go right, it becomes a mess. Now finally, it has become a mess too big for him to handle. Now everything, everything that _matters_ , it’s all—

_Gone._

Flecks of dust and sand flit across his visor. Only it’s not dust and sand, but the remnants of the Razor Crest. The sharp stench of vaporized metal is barely detectable but it makes him nauseous all the same. It’s all so familiar. The ash, the fire, the smell of things burning. If Din looks down, he thinks he can see the bright red cloth on his own body. The ground spins as he swallows down the bile creeping up his throat. His arm throbs.

“Mando?” He knows Fennec is speaking to him; Din sees her mouth move to form the words. They are both staring at him now, and he needs to say something. 

“I need to get my jetpack.” He croaks out, voice like gravel but he hopes it had sounded steady.

Fett and Fennec blink in unison and share a glance. Din doesn’t bother wondering about whatever the hell could be going through their minds right now. Maybe they are having second thoughts about it already. He doesn’t know what he’d do if they decide to take back their word now. 

He turns around, teeth clenching as the metal particulates grate against the bottom of his boots. The throbbing in his right arm spreads to his shoulder. He tilts his head tiredly. The beskar spear glints in the sunlight, reflecting straight back into his eyes. His grip on the weapon is tight enough to make his muscles pulse with a dull pain. The beskar does not yield, leaving his palms sweaty underneath the glove.

Loosen it, he tells himself. Yet, it takes him several tries before his body registers that he’s talking to it. Slowly he loosens his fingers one by one. But it’s no good. The second he relaxes, his hand starts to tremble and he cannot will it to stop. Instead, he tightens his grip again, feeling the hand throb against the metal instead of shaking. 

Din takes his first few steps, stabbing the spear against the ground with every other pace. He doesn’t hear the other two follow, which he is grateful for. He really didn’t want either of them to see him have to lean heavily against the spear multiple times on the trek back towards where he had last dropped the jetpack. Where he had left it in his hurry to check on the Imperial ships. Where he had made yet another stupid decision.

He stumbles again. Everything comes down to the wrong decisions, doesn't it? If only Fett hadn't shown up. If only Din hadn't made such a big deal about the armor. Because, in retrospect, does it even fucking matter now? He snorts to himself, ducking his head, shoulders shaking. 

If only everyone in the entire fucking _galaxy_ would just leave Din and the kid alone.

.

.

If only he had grabbed the jetpack before running off up the mountain. He would’ve been faster, he would’ve reached the kid before they took him. He would’ve...he would’ve…

He would’ve still had _something._

By the time he makes it back to the Razor Crest’s remains with his jetpack, Fett’s ship is already there, door open and engines rumbling in wait. Din walks up the ramp, taking in the shape of the vessel. It’s a Firespray interceptor, though heavily modified even for an attack ship. He thinks it might have been as old as the Razor Crest, if not older. Din reaches out, touching the outer panels, watching flakes of faded red and green paint stick to his fingertips. He lets out a breath; not sure if he wants to laugh or choke. 

Din makes his way into the cargo hold, twitching when the ship’s hatch hisses and glides shut behind him. He looks around casually, trying to figure out where the cockpit is. The Razor Crest had been fairly simple in its design. Back on the Crest, he had a lot of supplies and crates lying around wherever was most convenient. Here, everything seems to be bolted down into place. Din stares at the horizontal ladders and seats pressed up against the ground rather than the walls, trying to wrap his head around how the area would change once they left the docking orientation. 

“Mando! Up here!” He hears Fennec call out from further in and he follows her voice until he finds the cockpit. There are only two seats in the enclosed space, and both Fett and Fennec are occupying them. 

“There you are, we were starting to think you’ve left on your own.” Fennec turns in her seat, her familiar smirk in place. Her cheeks are slightly rosy, still heated from recent battle. Din hadn’t even had the chance to really process her sudden revival. When he had checked on her body back at Tatooine, she was near white and cold. As good as dead. He faintly hears the soft clicks and whirrs of the mechanics in her lower abdomen and shifts his gaze to Fett, who has not looked back on him yet. Din had seen the crushed skulls and mangled limbs of dead Troopers on his way back. This Boba Fett man is clearly skilled, in both combat and engineering. 

He turns her words over and over in his head, feeling bitterness rise.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He simply says. Because it’s true and it’s finally hit him. If Fett hadn’t offered to help, he didn’t know how he would’ve gotten off Tython.

All he has now is the armor and weapons on his body. Everything that he ever owned had been on the Razor Crest. Every gadget, every trinket he's collected over the years of exploring the cosmos. _Kriff,_ the toys he's picked up over the months for the kid. Every little thing that's made the Razor Crest more _home_ than a ship. Gone. Vaporized before his very eyes. Anything else that might have been left behind at the Covert would have been looted or destroyed.

This is all he has now.

Din tries to take a breath but it gets stuck somewhere in his chest. 

This is all...all..he..he has nothi—

“We will find your child.” Fett’s voice breaks through the fogginess clouding him, and Din blinks rapidly, trying to get the gray spots out of his vision. Fett has finally turned around to look at him. His expression is stone-cold and unwavering, but there is a gleam of light in those dark eyes that seem to stare straight into Din’s eyes, even though they are hidden by the helmet’s visor. Din supposes all Mandalorians do know exactly where to look, even if Fett declares no allegiance to the Creed.

After a few more seconds of silence, Din realizes they are expecting him to respond, not just stare from the entranceway, stiff and still.

“What?” He manages to say, feeling rather dumb at the moment. It’s like he’s floating, watching the scenes unfold before him. Fett and Fennec are speaking to him, and he can hear himself respond. But he’s not here at all. He’s back on the rocky terrain, watching the red flash of laser fire hit the Crest, destroying his livelihood, his _home_ for the past two decades. Everything in ashes within a split second. He’s back on the mountain top, heart pounding and breaths coming out in short pants as he scaled the rock. He’s back to that singular moment of reaching the summit only to see the kid disappearing into the skies, a soft cry being the last thing Din hears before the kid is gone. 

Gone because he had failed.

“Nevarro it is then.” Fett turns back towards the ship’s controls, inputting coordinates. Din blinks again.

“Oh..yeah.” A whole conversation had happened without him being aware. This isn’t good, he swallows. Somehow he had still managed to let them know Nevarro is the place to go. And it really is, isn’t it? Any time things went wrong, Nevarro would be the first place in his mind to turn back to. Back when he would get injured on his first bounties, he’d fight his way tooth and nail back to the Covert, stumbling and crawling if he had to. Back to his _aliit_ , to be healed and admonished by the _alor_ for being reckless. Then, when the Crest was falling apart and his own mind was hanging on by a thread, he had gone back to Nevarro for repairs and…

And for his friends.

They cared for the kid, just as much as he did. They would help. They had to. 

He had nowhere else to turn to. 

“You might want to strap yourself in somewhere, we’re going to lift off and make the jump as soon as we can.” Fennec advises, flipping some switches. Din can feel the engine roar to life. 

“Maybe get some rest. The journey shouldn’t be long, but I doubt we will get much time to do so once we get on their trail.” Fett adds. 

As Fett says this, Din starts to become more aware of himself as the adrenaline finally fades. His knees are on the verge of locking up from how tense he’s been. The hand on the spear is nearly asleep, his joints throbbing from what will surely be cramps the moment he sets the weapon down. He nods, turning to head back down. 

Din wanders into cargo hold again. He finds the horizontally-oriented seats and slides himself into one. Only then, he allows himself to go slack, groaning softly at the creak of his bones and the deep ache in his muscles. There is no place to put the spear, so he doesn’t let up his grip. He stares up at the ceiling, blinking in a set rhythm, trying to keep himself from losing that thread. 

The ship hums as it shifts in direction. He grips his seat tightly until he is no longer sitting horizontally. The Firespray has right itself into its upright position. He hears the artificial gravity projectors activate to reorient the space. The ship rumbles again as the cockpit rotates. Soon after, he can hear the telltale signs of a ship preparing for a jump.

His stomach does a small flip when the ship jumps, and he stays still until the ship stabilizes. He waits silently, but no one leaves the cockpit. Fett must’ve meant it when he told Din to get some rest if they aren’t coming down to speak with him. 

Logically, he knows this would be a good time to strategize. They may be headed for Navarro, but Din doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking for there yet. Maybe they could find some way to track down Gideon’s ship using whatever remains of the destroyed Imperial Base. Fett had sounded confident in their ability to find Gideon. At this point, Din is stuck between wanting to trust Fett to accomplish this and fearing that he is just setting himself up for more failures. 

Logically, he should be heading back up to the cockpit. He tells himself again, waiting for his body to obey that train of thought. But his body stays rooted in place. The sharp pressure in between his eyes makes it tempting to throw the helmet aside just to rub at them. There’s also a familiar gnawing in his stomach; the ration bar from two days ago is a distant memory. All in all, the last thing his body wants to do right now is head back up to the cockpit. 

_Useless utreekov that can’t do anything without screwing things up._ He flinches at the insult that just popped into his mind. The momentary pause in his thoughts ends as quickly as it began, making his head spin again. The exhaustion that overwhelms him is gradual but noticeable. It’s a losing battle. He isn’t sure he’s in any shape to force himself to snap out of it as his brain grows foggy with memories again. 

With a shuddering gasp, Din reaches into his utility belt to pull out the shifter control knob. He stares at it, wide-eyed, rubbing at the little ridges in a desperate attempt to stay present. His chest is heaving up and down, but he still can't get enough air to feel like he isn't suffocating. He needs to get a _grip_ ; he can’t just..just lose it right now. He can’t afford to, the kid needs him to keep it together. Just keep it the fuck together for just a bit longer. His entire hand trembles over the knob.

It flies out of his fingers as the ship makes a sudden jerk.

“NO—” He gasps, wrenching his seatbelt off. The spear clatters out of his hand, making a ringing _clang_ as it hits the floor and rolls to the side. He lands on his knees and elbows, limbs sluggish from the earlier adrenaline drop. Din scrambles against the ground, eyes frantically chasing after the knob that is rolling fast as the ship shifts itself back into balance. 

“Nononono— _pare pare−”_ The words tumble from his mouth as he surges forward, hands outstretched when the ball heads towards the small crevices between the ship’s wall and metal pipes. 

_“Pare gedet’ye!_ ” He cries out, fingers just missing the curve of the metal. It rolls off the small ledge, wedging itself between some piping just out of reach.

“No..no..c’mon…” Din can barely hear himself over the noise of his own pounding heartbeat. He presses himself against the pipes as best as he could, stretching his arm through the gap. 

“ _Haar’chak_!” He growls when he realizes that the beskar on his head and shoulders are preventing him from leaning in far enough.

He wrenches the pauldrons off without thinking for another second, leaning back into the gap as soon as they clattered to the ground. There is a little more give, but the knob is still out of reach. 

“ _Gedet’ye...gedet’ye.”_ Din pleads out loud, hoping someone or something out there can hear him and give this to him. He'd do anything if they gave him this. This one little thing. This thing he hadn’t expected to see survive the destruction of the Crest. This insignificant little ball of metal that is, in the grand scheme of things, nothing.

This stupid little ball that made him turn back for the kid that day. 

The day that changed his life forever. 

He spares one glance at the ladder leading to the cockpit. 

Din lifts his helmet off.

His breathing sounds loud and labored, blood rushing through his head and echoing in his ears. His face is warm from his sudden bout of panic and his long curls press against his forehead. He blows them back before leaning in again, this time with his cheek pressed against the cool metal of the pipes. Din wriggles his fingers, wishing the ship would rock again so the ball would roll closer. 

It doesn’t reach.

He switches positions, trying his other arm.

It doesn’t reach.

He doesn’t know how long he lies on his stomach, reaching and reaching. His shoulders are starting to feel bruised from how hard they are pressing against the odd jutting metal angles of the ship. The gap between his fingertips and the knob isn’t physically that big. But to Din, it might as well be another galaxy away. 

He feels wetness drip off the tip of his nose, and he stares at the droplets gathering on the floor beneath him. 

Why is he like this? Why can’t he do things right when it matters? All he had to do was keep the kid safe and reunite him with the Jedi. And yet he has failed, again and again. Stuck in a perpetual wild chase filled with dead ends, false leads, and dangerous favors that chipped away at even the strongest of his armor. 

All he had to do was keep the kid safe from the Imps. Instead, he had left the kid alone until he realized too fucking late to make a difference. His mind races with visceral memories again. The kid’s cries of alarm, large frantic eyes flitting across the mountain summit, searching. Searching for _Din._

And Din hadn’t been there. 

His arm drops to the ground, a strangled choke leaving his trembling lips. 

He hadn’t been there for the kid. 

_His_ kid. 

His _ad’ika_

Din doesn’t remember the last time he had cried freely. It might have been after the first few weeks he had been taken in by his _aliit_. Tears had been hard to come by. He had mostly been in stunned silence, refusing to interact with his rescuer and anyone else in the enclave. 

Then about a month after the day his life went to hell, the clan had held a small ceremony to help new foundlings move on from their past lives. He had to burn his old clothes. The red cloth that his mother had lovingly sewn for him for his birthday. He had thought he was ready. Until the moment the first lick of flame devoured the fabric. Din remembers watching it happen, and then it was as if a switch had been flicked on, and he was suddenly hit with the realization of what he just lost. He had been inconsolable then, sobbing into the arms of his rescuer, who would eventually become his _buir._

The sense of Deja Vu flashes through his mind in seconds. And the moment Din realizes the wetness on his face and on the ground are from tears, something inside him finally let go. A keening whine leaves the lips he's adamantly pressed shut. Then more escape as something breaks. His arms are too weak to support him, and Din slowly sinks down until his face is pressed against his hands. Just like that day, he couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to. 

It comes in small bursts, accompanied by hitched sobs as he tries his best to keep quiet. He swipes at his eyes and nose with his gloves. It’s gross and will be an absolute pain to clean later, but _fuck._

“I’m sorry,” He gasps out between gulps of air, "I'm sorry," Something has taken hold of his chest, squeezing at his ribs painfully and forcing his breaths out erratically like he’s some toy. And there isn't anything he could do to stop the cracks in his voice as he cries for forgiveness he doesn't deserve, “Grogu, I’m so sorry.” 

It _hurts._

To finally find someone that gives him a purpose beyond the next bounty and then to lose it so suddenly. Someone who trusts him implicitly even though he’s done so many terrible things. Someone so innocent and ready to give him affection without second thoughts. Someone who has become a rare light in his life. Someone he wouldn’t mind taking care of for the rest of his life. 

Someone, Din realizes tiredly between sniffs, he could never _ever_ bear to give back to someone else. 

Or to anyone, for that matter.

* * *

Din doesn’t remember falling asleep, but decades of instinct forces him to sit up at attention, blaster out and pointed at the sudden intruder. It is only a second later that he notices in relief, that even in his raw state of mind, he had remembered to slip the helmet back on before drifting off. 

Fennec merely raises an eyebrow at his current position on the ground, unfazed by the gun in her face.

“We are going to land on Nevarro soon. Boba wants to know if there’s anyone specific we should ask for through air traffic control.” 

“Greef Carga.” He says immediately, pausing to wince at how hoarse his voice is, then, “And Cara Dune.” 

Fennec nods but doesn’t leave him alone. Din pushes himself up until he’s sitting on his ass rather than sprawled across the floor. He reaches for his discarded pauldrons, fastening them back on. His face is still warm, the tears and snot dry and sticky underneath the helmet. His eyes are swollen and sore; his nose is still blocked. Overall, it feels as if he’s still in a hazy dream, stumbling from one story to another. 

Crying fucking sucks, Din decides. He’d have to ask Fett to use the ‘fresher to clean up before they leave the ship. 

“Do you need something else?” He grouses once his armor is back in order, and Fennec is still standing over him. He moves to stand, freezing when Fennec offers her arm out. 

Din studies her. She hasn’t aged much since the last he saw of her over a year ago. After the fight he’d seen on Tython, he knows the infamous assassin hasn’t lost her touch. Yet, she holds herself in a more relaxed and serene manner, like she had found something other than murder to care about. Her face is still sharp, eyes sparkling with confidence and danger. But the hidden threat of venom in her fangs isn’t directed at him anymore. 

He takes her hand, lifting himself off the ground. He turns back towards the ledge, shoulders slumping down. 

“You should head back to the cockpit for landing.” He tells her, hating how bothered and flat his voice sounds. He can’t bring himself to look away from the knob that continues to roll back and forth with the ship’s turbulence, just out of reach.

He can hear Fennec sigh and walk away. His head perks up when the sound of beskar scraping against metal echoes through the room. He turns to see Fennec walking back towards him with the spear in hand. Din reaches out, ready to take it from her. But, she maneuvers around him towards the ledge.

With one smooth sweep, Fennec bats the knob within reach. She bends down, scooping it into her hand before standing again.

She turns around to face Din, holding out the metal ball. 

Din flushes underneath the helmet.

Maker, he’s so fucking _stupid._

He manages to take the ball from her without his shaking hands dropping it. 

“...Thank you.” He swallows, holding it up to his chest and squeezing it tightly. He wishes he had the right words to convey just _how_ thankful he is, but his throat is starting to close up again. His brain feels as if it had tussled directly with another mudhorn. Every emotion feels raw and out in the open. He feels more tired now than before his impromptu nap. He feels more tired than he has ever felt.

“It’s way too early for you to give up, Mando. You’ve pulled crazier shit when fighting me, this will be nothing.” She hums with an amused smile on her lips. She hands him the spear this time. 

“I know.” He takes it, testing its weight. He imagines how it would feel when it slides through Moff Gideon’s chest. A quiet white-hot ire washes over his entire body, driving out his thoughts and filling him with a sense of peace he hasn't felt in a long time. 

She watches him silently, and Din wonders what exactly she’s trying to gauge about him. Whatever it is, she approves of it with a nod.

“Good. Get back in your seat then,” She turns back towards the cockpit as Din moves to settle in his chair again, “We’ve got a child to save and an Empire’s ass to kick.” 

Din snorts, sniffing until he could finally breathe through his nose again. The ship starts to rumble as it approaches Nevarro’s atmosphere.

He looks down at the knob he has cupped in both hands, spear abandoned on the ground.

Din brings it to his helm, pressing his forehead against the metal. He lets out a breath. 

_Hold on, ad’ika. I’m coming to get you back._

**Author's Note:**

> Aliit - family/clan  
> Alor - leader  
> Utreekov - fool  
> Pare - wait  
> Gedet’ye - please  
> Haar’chak - Damn it  
> Ad’ika - little one/child  
> Buir - parent 
> 
> To be fair, Din was hard panicking and that's when the stupid juice hits the hardest. He's doing his best, but he's really low on brain cells right now. 
> 
> Boba and Fennec are mlm/wlw solidarity. You don't often find other weirdos wylin' out there being left for dead on Tatooine. So when you do, you best believe you're gonna be besties :) 
> 
> I've never written Star Wars before, but I hope it was ok. Thanks for reading, comments and kudos are appreciated! Let's be sad and scared for the next two episodes together :)
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kkrazy256) if you want to chat or support me in other ways <3


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